Desperate Deed
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Peter receives threatening e-mails from someone with a grudge. And the FBI has a hard time catching the guy and Neal gets caught in the middle. PG-13, Gen
1. Consider This

**Title:** Desperate Deed  
><strong>Author:<strong> TeeJay  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Gen  
><strong>CharactersPairings: **Neal, Peter, Elizabeth (and a number of other regulars)  
><strong>Written for:<strong> kanarek13 for LiveJournal's collarcorner Prompt Fest Round 6  
><strong>PromptRequest:** I don't wanna give too much away, so I'm not gonna post the prompt here.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13 for language and violence  
><strong>Warning:<strong> There's gonna be some f-bombs. And blood.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter receives threatening e-mails from someone with a grudge. And the FBI has a hard time catching the guy.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Long author's note is long, because there's just so many things about this story I wanna mention:  
>1) As per kanarek13's prompt, this was inspired by something that happened in the season one finale of the TNT show "Rizzoli &amp; Isles" (which, in case you're interested, is based on Tess Gerritsen's novel "The Surgeon"). To understand this story it's not necessary to have seen "Rizzoli &amp; Isles" or the season finale because this isn't a crossover and I'm not using any of the R&amp;I characters. I'm not saying that it won't help with the visuals, though.<br>2) I imagine this story to take place shortly after "What Happens In Burma".  
>3) If you've read my story "Off Target", some of this may seem kinda repetitive. I have really tried not to go the same route, but there's only so many directions in which you can take a very similar situation with the same characters. At least I have one thing going for me: I'd like to think I'm being consistent.<br>4) I have much love for kanarek13. She posts the best prompts. This is the third story I've written for her, and I've always enjoyed the hell out of it. She's also incredibly generous (and she'll know what I'm referring to). Thank you for that!  
>5) I swear I wrote this before I saw episode 3x03, just in case you think I stole the threats thing. I didn't. swanpride can vouch for that.<br>6) Speaking of whom, I need to thank two other people who helped greatly with this story. First of all, my invaluable beta reader rabidchild67 who (I hope) caught all the snafus and encouraged me to rewrite a few things that, in the end, improved this doozie of an angst ride. Second of all, swanpride for her very helpful comments and insights on the logistics of this, which ultimately helped me over a little bout of writer's block. Without her, it would have taken even longer for this to see the light of day (and it already took long enough).  
>7) This is now officially the longest White Collar fanfic I've written to date. Wheee!<br>8) Chapter titles are all song titles. Let's see if you can recognize any. (No cheating!)  
>9) Last but not least, because I'm mean that way, I will post one chapter every day. (There's six in all, and the first one is the shortest.)<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<br>- Consider This -**

* * *

><p><em>agent burke, be on your guard. one day soon you will regret having signed up for this job.<em>

The words stared angrily at Peter from the laptop screen. The e-mail had come to his private account, and Peter had nearly tagged it as spam to delete it unread.

The subject line read: _"important message for peter burke."_ He didn't know why he opened it, but in retrospect it seemed like an uncanny sense of prescience.

Peter stared at the message for a long minute. He pondered his next course of action, or even if there should _be_ a next course of action. He'd been threatened before in his line of work, and these threats rarely posed actual or imminent danger. White collar criminals were usually not the violent types.

Peter looked at the e-mail again. There was no name in the return address, and the address itself was generic. The header information was a jumble of information he couldn't make heads or tails of. He clicked the message closed but left it in his inbox. By the next day, he had all but forgotten about it.

It was three days later that he received a similar message.

_burke, you better take me seriously, or else youre gonna be very sorry._

It was then that he started to grow concerned and involved the Bureau. The tech guys confiscated his laptop and ran every trace they could think of. But whoever this was, they knew their stuff. It looked like the message had been routed around half the world and back, utilizing heavy encryptions that were pretty much impossible to break.

Another two days later, and IT alerted him that he'd received a new threat via e-mail.

_i will come after you for what you did to me. there will be no escaping._

It was with the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and index finger that Neal found Peter in his office that day.

"Bad day?" Neal asked.

Peter sighed heavily. "You could say that."

"You've been kinda broody lately. Domestic strife in the Burke home?"

He knew Neal had meant it to sound playful, but Peter wasn't in the mood for verbal sparring with the ex-con. Maybe it was time to share this with the team. "I'm being threatened."

Neal's expression immediately grew a notch darker. "Threatened? How?"

"E-mails. Coming in every few days, to my private account. IT is trying to trace them, but no luck so far."

"Can I see them?"

Peter hesitated, but figured it couldn't hurt, so he showed Neal the printouts.

"Sounds like someone with a grudge," Neal commented. "Have you started looking into this?"

Peter's temper suddenly flared. "What the hell would I be looking into? There is nothing _to_ look into! Anonymous e-mail address, no clues to work with..."

If Neal was perturbed by Peter's outburst, he didn't show it. He calmly held up that last e-mail. "Oh, but there is. A clue, I mean. _'I will come after you for what you did to me.' _This is someone out on a personal vendetta. That's a start."

Peter sighed. "Neal, do you know how many criminals I've gotten locked up? It's a long list. I don't see how that'll help us."

"You could start by narrowing it down to those released from prison in, say, the last two or three months."

"Right," Peter acknowledged and chided himself on not thinking of that sooner. This was seriously messing with his head.

By early afternoon Neal, Peter, Diana and Jones were working hard on finding possible leads. Lists, case files and database printouts were strewn on the conference room table. There was little talk and a lot of caffeine and paper shuffling.

At six o'clock, Peter folded his hands behind this neck and leaned back in his chair. He looked around the table. "Okay, so tell me what you've got."

Neal, Diana and Jones rattled through potential suspects and probable motives. The list wasn't too long, and Peter tried to mentally picture each and every one of the criminals they were talking about. The name Jake Benson painted a particularly vivid picture, and an uneasy feeling spread through Peter's stomach.

Benson had been convicted eight years ago, one of Peter's early cases in White Collar Crime. He'd bilked over a million dollars from innocent clients through bogus investment schemes. Not a particularly exciting or extraordinary case, but what made it linger in Peter's mind was that one of the clients Benson had ripped off got to Benson's wife and shot her, execution-style, in their own home.

Benson had already threatened Peter at the trial, but Peter hadn't been worried then. The guy was being put away, and from their investigation Peter was fairly certain he didn't have any ties to organized crime. There was only so much Benson would be able to do from prison.

Now that he was out, however, it was possible that the man's urge for revenge could have festered rather than abated.

Peter shared this with the team and asked them to take a closer look at Benson. Finally, they had a lead that seemed worth investigating.

* * *

><p>to be continued in<br>Chapter 2


	2. Devil Man

**Chapter 2  
>- Devil Man -<strong>

* * *

><p>After the better part of a week spent chasing leads that didn't go anywhere (yes, they now had Benson's address, but that was about all they had on the guy), Peter's optimism was starting to dwindle. He had received another e-mail that was much along the same lines as the others. Vague threats that couldn't be traced or investigated.<p>

Outwardly, Peter seemed okay, but Neal could tell that it was starting to make him nervous. He kept insisting that it was merely a precaution, but Neal had a feeling it was growing worry (and maybe a hunch or two) that made Peter and Elizabeth's personal and social lives come to an almost complete standstill. When Peter wasn't working, he was at home, keeping an eye on his wife as much as possible. Elizabeth was almost exclusively working from home. They tried not to go out unless it was absolutely necessary. A patrol car was stationed outside their house whenever Peter wasn't there, but Peter knew they could only keep this up for so long.

And sure enough, Hughes came into Peter's office that same day. From the look on his face, Peter already knew this couldn't be good.

"Burke, NYPD just called. They've been watching your home for a solid week with no indication of anything remotely threatening. They're putting a lid on this, and there's little I can do about it."

Peter didn't like it, but it wasn't like he had any leverage either. At least Hughes gave him permission to work home-based as much as he could until this was squared away.

The next day, he was sitting at their dining room table when the next message came in.

_scared yet, burke? you better be prepared when i make my move._

With a frustrated grunt, he slammed the Blackberry down on the table so that it clattered onto the wooden surface. It was unbelievable that IT still hadn't found a way to trace the e-mails. This needed to stop. They needed to catch whoever was doing this, because Peter wasn't sure how many more nights of fitful and too little sleep he could take, groping for the gun on his nightstand whenever there was the tiniest sound in the house. He'd already almost shot Satchmo one night.

"Honey," Elizabeth came bustling into the room. "I know I'm not supposed to go out, but I really need to go to the office. I have all my files there, and there are some things I just can't do from here. I already have a huge list of things for the office. And it's just... becoming too much."

Peter rubbed his face with one hand. "Yeah, I know," he sighed. "I wish there was something... anything I could do. I hate this as much as you do."

She gave him a well-meant smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I know it's not your fault. And I'm not blaming you. I just... I need to go. Why don't you come with me? There's wireless internet, you can work just as well from there."

Peter pondered the idea for a minute and finally acquiesced. Within fifteen minutes, they were on their way.

They were about halfway there when the Taurus's screen indicated an incoming call from Hughes. "Burke, where are you?"

"In the car, on the way to my wife's office," he answered.

"Is your wife with you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then bring her and we'll keep an eye on her here. Something big is going down and we need every man we have right now."

Peter acknowledged and hung up.

Elizabeth looked at him, her mouth forming a thin line. "Really, I don't need babysitting. Can't you just drop me off at the office? I promise to lock all the doors and not let anyone in. I can't be sitting in your office, twiddling my thumbs. There's the reception on Friday, and the wedding on Saturday. Things are already tight as they are."

"El—"

"No, you don't get to 'El' me. You're driving me to my office, end of discussion. I'm not gonna let this... this creep, whoever he is, run my life anymore."

"Listen, it's not safe."

"Nothing's safe, Peter," she huffed at him. "I could be run over by a car whenever I step out into the street. Or catch this new _E. coli _bug that's been killing people. There's no such thing as safe."

Peter stared out the windscreen. Things were already testy in the Burke home. He had a feeling this'd tear apart the fragile ground they were treading on.

"At least let me call Neal, have him stay with you."

She grumbled something, but looked like she realized it would be her best shot.

Neal readily agreed to come and play guard, though he had concerns about how exactly he could protect Elizabeth. "Say someone indeed comes there to, I don't know, do something to Elizabeth. What exactly do you expect me to do, Peter? I don't have a gun, or any other kind of weapon."

"I know," Peter said. "You're resourceful. Find something you can use as a club. Look around. There's plenty of stuff that can be transformed into a weapon if need be."

"Are you preemptively absolving me of committing a violent crime?"

"No," Peter quickly hissed into the phone. "No. Just— Do what you need to do, all right? Besides, the guy is after _me_, and not Elizabeth. This is merely a precaution."

"Right."

"You okay with this?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Listen, Hughes needs me in the office straight away. I'll tell El to lock up and that you'll call her cell when you're there."

After acknowledgement from Neal, he hung up.

Peter parked the car and took a tour of the premises, just to be safe and make sure no intruders were hiding in any corners. He would have preferred to wait for Neal to get there, but that couldn't be helped now.

To El, he said, "Call me or the Bureau if there's anything suspicious. And I mean _any_thing. Do you remember the code word?"

"Yes," she told him. "Cocktail umbrella."

He gave Elizabeth a kiss on the lips before he left, making her promise to lock all the doors and not let anyone in save for Neal.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Neal arrived at Burke Premiere Events. As instructed, he called El's cell phone. It rang a few times, then went to voicemail. That puzzled him, so he knocked on the door. When he didn't get any response, he knocked again, more forcefully. Still no answer. He called Elizabeth's name for good measure.<p>

Something was wrong, he knew it. His fingers hovered over the speed dial button for a long moment. Should he be calling Peter?

Neal clenched his jaw in tense anticipation of having to bear bad news, but only got voicemail as well. He left a message. "Peter, I'm not sure when you'll get this, but I have a feeling something's wrong. I'm at Elizabeth's office, but she's not answering her phone or the door. If you don't hear from me in the next fifteen or twenty minutes, you should send someone."

He contemplated calling someone else to make sure his message was received, but then discarded the thought. This could be totally harmless, maybe Elizabeth just took a bio break. So he did the next best thing he could think of: He reached inside his jacket pocket and got out the lockpicking tools he tended to keep on him. This one wasn't hard to pick, and he had the door open in less than two minutes.

He looked around, but nothing seemed amiss. He contemplated calling her name, but then thought better of it. He knew he might be overreacting, but what if he wasn't? He remembered his earlier conversation with Peter about not having a gun. A weapon would certainly be good now. He looked around for anything he could use.

There was a set of fire irons in the corner of the room that was made up like a living room for display purposes. He quickly grabbed one of the black iron bars and edged closer to the door to Elizabeth's office, opening it as quietly as he could. It was empty.

Neal looked around. What was he missing? There was a muffled sound from the door that led to the adjacent storage room. As soon as he opened it, he could see Elizabeth sitting on the floor, cowering almost. All caution forgotten, he rushed towards her even before he consciously processed her frightened eyes, the bruise on her cheek, the split lip.

"Elizabeth," he urgently whispered, but she shrank away from him, her eyes filling with more panic.

He stopped short at her flinch, confused, the fire iron still firmly in his hand. Before he could look, think, react, there was a menacing, growling voice behind him. "Drop that or I'll shoot you."

Neal spun around, facing his opponent.

"I said drop it!" the guy urged.

The fire iron clattered to the floor next to Neal's foot, barely missing his toes. "What do you want?"

The guy chuckled. "What do I want? I want... I want her to die, that's what I want!"

Neal protectively took a step sideways so he could put himself as a shield between the man and Elizabeth.

"Don't move," came the sharp command.

Neal lifted his arms defensively. "Okay. Okay."

"Who the hell are you?"

Neal had to think quickly. Should he be using an alias? This could only be the guy who was threatening Peter. Was there any way to con his way out of this? Unlikely with the guy wielding a gun, and himself now without the only weapon he had.

"George Donnelly," Neal said. Hopefully, if it would ever be of any use, Peter would recognize that Neal was using an alias they had burned recently—together.

"Ah, George _Donnelly_," the guy rolled the name around in his mouth, a mocking edge to it. His face became grim, his voice almost a shout, "If I wanted your damn name, I would have asked for it! What the hell are you doing here? I thought the bitch locked the door." He nodded at Elizabeth.

"She did," Neal quickly assured him. "I broke in."

"Are you fucking kidding me? A burglar?" Then the guy realized something. "How did you know her name?"

There was no way Neal could conjure up a believable story out of thin air, so he did the only thing he could think of that might not get them both killed on the spot. He told the truth. "I'm not a burglar. I was supposed to keep an eye on her. When I found the door locked, I was worried, so I picked the lock."

The guy seemed to be evaluating the story in his head, trying to decide whether to believe it or not. It seemed to be good enough for him. "Show me you're not armed."

Neal took off his suit jacket and demonstrated he had no weapons on him.

"Ankles," the guy instructed, and when Neal lifted his pant legs, he indicated at the device around Neal's leg. "What's that?"

"What's it look like? It's a tracking anklet."

"What _is_ this? You some kind of criminal?"

"Yeah."

"Brilliant," the guy chuckled sarcastically. "Just brilliant. The FBI sends a parolee to guard Burke's wife. Gimme your phone. Then sit down." He vaguely waved his gun at Elizabeth. "Next to her."

Neal did as he was told, and looked at Elizabeth. "You okay?" he carefully addressed her.

"Yeah," she said hoarsely.

"Stop talking," the guy barked.

Neal looked him square in the eyes, his own having gone cold. "Jake, right? Jake Benson."

"How do you know my name?"

"Come on, Jake, the FBI is not stupid. After all those e-mails, it wasn't hard to go from there."

"Well, this is even better. Makes things easier, I guess. Of course I'm gonna have to kill you too." He instructed Elizabeth, "Now call your husband again, bitch! And remember what I said."

She took her cell phone again and dialed with shaking hands. After a few seconds of apprehensive silence, she shook her head. "Still voicemail."

"Well, then leave a fucking message. We'll just have to wait until he picks it up. Make sure he realizes this is urgent. And no messing around, or you'll both be dead."

She waited for Peter's message to finish, then said in a shaky voice that she tried to make sound cheerful, "Hey, Honey. I'm not sure where you are, but I forgot to unload the cocktail umbrellas you have in the trunk. I need them very urgently for the reception. Can you come, drop them off?"

She hung up and Benson stared at her with pure disdain. "Now we wait," he said, sitting down in one of the desk chairs, his gun still pointed at Neal and Elizabeth.

Neal watched him warily, then turned his attention to Elizabeth. The cut on her lip was little more than superficial, the mark on her cheek would soon be turning from red to blue. Her hair and clothes were disheveled, the hem of her blouse having been pulled out of the waistband of her pantsuit. He had never seen her so intimidated, so frightened—and suddenly a thought occurred to him that shocked him. The assault to her face notwithstanding, had this guy done more than just hit her?

"Elizabeth." His throat was suddenly dry. "Did he— Did he assault you? You know, uh..." He couldn't say it.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "He tried."

Cold rage suddenly bubbled up inside of him and he clenched his jaw. Her hand wrapped around Neal's arm in an iron grip. "No," she said in an urgent whisper. "Don't. He— He didn't get very far."

Neal leaned closer to her, his voice barely audible. "I called Peter, before I broke in. They'll be here. I left a—"

"I said no talking!" Benson barked, waving the gun in their direction.

Neal and Elizabeth stayed silent after that.

* * *

><p>By the time the operation was over and Peter could check his phone again, he had four missed calls and three voice messages—both Neal and Elizabeth among the callers. His sense of foreboding immediately flared. He hastily called his mailbox and listened to the messages.<p>

The one from Elizabeth made him suck in a quick breath. Peter felt the blood drain out of his face as he heard Elizabeth use the code word. The room began to spin around him. Suddenly, he felt unbearably cold. Neal's last call had been over an hour ago. This was bad. Something had happened, someone was threatening his wife.

Peter immediately shouted for Diana and Jones and took them to Hughes to mobilize the forces. Then he called Neal's phone, desperate to find out what was going on.

* * *

><p>The shrill ring of Neal's cell phone startled them all, and Elizabeth physically jumped. Benson looked at the display, then at Neal. "Well, look at that. It's Burke."<p>

He held the phone out to Neal. "Answer it, tell him to come here. Put him on speaker. No tricks."

Neal took the phone and activated the hands-free function. "This is George Donnelly," he answered the phone.

"It's Peter," his voice came over the line. "Is everything all right, George?"

"Yeah, peachy. I know I should have checked in earlier, but this guy we talked about kept me—"

Benson gave Neal a threatening look, so he quickly said, "Listen, can you come down here?" hoping that Peter had gotten the message.

"To Elizabeth's office?"

"Yes. She also tells me she really needs the cocktail umbrellas from your trunk."

There was a brief pause, then Peter said, "Okay, I, uh... I'll be there."

Benson then grabbed the phone, disconnecting the call. "What the hell was that?"

Neal shrugged. "I'm a convicted criminal. I'm supposed to check in every twelve hours. Figured Burke might suspect something's up if I don't."

Benson didn't look convinced. "I swear to you, if you're up to something, you're gonna regret this. And Burke is gonna regret this twice over."

* * *

><p>Peter stared at his phone, the line having suddenly gone dead. The guy they talked about kept Neal from calling back? George Donnelly? What the hell did that mean? It had to be Benson, Peter was positive.<p>

He rejoined Diana and Jones who were mustering the assault team with professional, yet almost tangibly nervous urgency. He listened to the briefing speech Jones gave, growing more impatient by the second. He tried interrupting a few times to rush the process along, but Diana's hand on his arm stopped him with quiet assertiveness.

"They're the best, Boss. We'll get him," she told him.

It didn't do much in terms of reassurance. This was his wife they were talking about!

* * *

><p>The minutes ticked by like hours for Neal and Elizabeth. Benson was getting more fidgety as time went on, and the bad feeling in the pit of Neal's stomach intensified. Sideways glances at Elizabeth told him she was frightened but holding up.<p>

Neal didn't know how much time had passed—it might have been fifteen minutes, it might have been an hour—and then everything changed.

It was the office telephone ringing that had Benson momentarily distracted. Neal would have never expected it, but desperate people would do desperate deeds, and he watched half in surprise, half in horror as Elizabeth jumped up and went for Benson's gun.

If the distance between them had been a foot less, she might even have succeeded, but as it was, her attempt fell short and Benson whirled around at the sudden movement. A shot rang out.

Neal could hear his own scream ringing in his ears. "NO!"

He watched Elizabeth go down, a red stain spreading on the left side of her chest. Before Neal could do anything, Benson jerked the gun up and straight at Neal. "Move, and you're dead."

Neal couldn't _not_ move, couldn't not take a step in Elizabeth's direction, but Benson was suddenly between him and El, holding the gun dangerously close. "Get the fuck back!" he barked.

Neal could only comply, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth's unmoving form on the ground.

"Shit," Benson muttered. "Shit, shit, shit. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to go like this."

He was suddenly by Neal's side, poking the gun into his back, pushing him forward, towards the door. "Move."

Neal didn't want to, but he wasn't stupid. Benson had just proved he was all too trigger-happy, and Neal needed time to think. He stumbled into the main display room.

Through the large windows, it was hard to miss the commotion outside. FBI issue cars were positioned in front of the building, agents in Kevlar vests and FBI windbreakers all around, guns drawn. SWAT was swarming the scene. Peter had brought the circus to town, and Neal had a front row seat. His stomach plummeted. This couldn't end well.

Benson was suddenly furious. "What the fuck _is_ this ? This is your fault! You said something to Burke, a secret word, some kind of code phrase—and now he brought the fucking cavalry!"

"No," Neal pleaded. "This wasn't me! I didn't say anything. Burke's not stupid. He must have figured out something was wrong."

"What the hell did you tell him?"

"Nothing, I swear," Neal tried desperately. "Listen, Jake, think about what you're doing."

"I don't need to think," Benson snarled. "This is all going to hell, and you're my ticket outta here."

"Don't do this," Neal tried again.

"Oh, I'm doing this. I already killed his wife, and I'm going to kill him too."

With that, he snatched Neal and poked his gun in Neal's back, dragging him to the door. Before opening the door, he positioned Neal's body in front of him. As soon as he opened the door, he pointed the gun at the FBI agents.

Neal could hear shouts of, "Stand down! Don't shoot!"

His eyes searched out Peter among the agents, and when they found him, his body shielded by an open car door, he kept thinking, 'Peter, do something!'

* * *

><p>The sudden movement by the door caught Peter's attention, and his eyes went wide when he realized what was going on. He could only watch helplessly as Benson, using Neal as the perfect shield, edged down the stairs.<p>

There were shouts of, "Stand down!" and Peter called out, "Don't shoot!"

_Where was Elizabeth? _He trained his gun on Benson, but the guy was good. He was holding Neal's whole body in front of him so that a clear shot to hit Benson was nearly impossible, all the while holding the gun in their direction.

He heard Neal's desperate shout, "Shoot him! Peter, shoot the bastard!"

Peter's gun never wavered, but he couldn't shoot. _Neal, move!_

Benson kept walking, inching with Neal away from the scene. There was no way Peter could fire and not hit Neal.

"I'll kill you, Burke! I'm gonna find you and kill you!" he heard Benson call out, and something in Peter's mind went wild. _I'm gonna shoot the bastard! _But he couldn't pull the trigger, Neal was still right in the line of fire.

"Drop your gun, Benson! You don't stand a chance!" one of the agents bellowed, but Benson was doing no such thing.

* * *

><p>Neal watched the scene unraveling in front of him as if it was a badly written movie. Benson was dragging him away and no one was doing anything. The elbow of Benson's arm holding the gun was digging into his ribcage, and nobody was stopping them.<p>

Neal looked at Peter, shocked and helpless, and in his mind's eye saw Elizabeth shrinking away from him, her bruised face, the bullet hitting her, her falling to the floor. _'No!_' his mind kept screaming. _'No, you can't let this happen!'_

He struggled in Benson's grasp, but the guy was holding him too tight. It was an act of desperation, a completely unbridled impulse, and he couldn't even tell how his brain would let him go through with it, but he did the only thing he could think of. He took a hold of Benson's hand and moved it to his own belly, angling it upward. Benson was so focused on the FBI agents, he didn't realize what Neal was doing until...

* * *

><p>to be continued in<br>Chapter 3


	3. Bullet Holes

**Chapter 3  
>- Bullet Holes -<strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Previously on "Desperate Deed"...<strong>_

_Neal watched the scene unraveling in front of him as if it was a badly written movie. Benson was dragging him away and no one was doing anything. The elbow of Benson's arm holding the gun was digging into his ribcage, and nobody was stopping them._

_Neal looked at Peter, shocked and helpless, and in his mind's eye saw Elizabeth shrinking away from him, her bruised face, the bullet hitting her, her falling to the floor._ 'No!'_ his mind kept screaming. _'No, you can't let this happen!'

_He struggled in Benson's grasp, but the guy was holding him too tight. It was an act of desperation, a completely unbridled impulse, and he couldn't even tell how his brain would let him go through with it, but he did the only thing he could think of. He took a hold of Benson's hand and moved it to his own belly, angling it upward. Benson was so focused on the FBI agents, he didn't realize what Neal was doing until..._

* * *

><p>It was too late when Peter realized what Neal was doing, when his brain had caught up with what he was seeing. As if in slow motion, he watched Neal's hand taking Benson's, aiming the gun's barrel at his own abdomen. The look on Neal's face was determined, almost smug, which struck Peter as ironically absurd.<p>

Before he could shout at Neal to stop, Neal's voice carried to his ears. "Peter, go save Elizabeth!"

The shot that rang out as Neal pulled the trigger was like a soft pop, and Peter could only helplessly watch at the bullet tore through Neal's flesh into Benson, could only stand and scream, "No!" as both went down.

After a moment of shock, Peter perceived the hectic movement around him, agents running towards Neal and Benson. Something in his mind stopped him, and after a second he realized it was Neal's last words. _'Go save Elizabeth!'_

No! Something had happened, something bad! Sparing a last glance at where Neal and Benson had fallen, he sprinted towards the building, heading inside. He looked around the room frantically, not seeing Elizabeth.

He called out her name, panic barely contained in his voice. "El? El?"

He heard a faint noise from the adjacent storage room. Elizabeth was stirring on the floor, an ugly, crimson stain marring the side of her blouse.

"No," Peter let out in a hollow whisper. "El."

He fell to his knees by her side, cupping her face in his hands. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion written all over them—then pain.

"Ow. Peter, he— He shot me," she croaked.

"Here, let me see."

He shoved her clothes upwards, exposing the naked skin of her torso. The bullet had ripped through part of her bra; it had entered through her ribcage just below her breast, barely an inch from her side. It was bleeding, but not heavily so. She moaned in pain and Peter was too afraid to check any further. She needed medical attention—and something to stop the bleeding.

She sucked in a sharp breath. "Damn, it hurts. How bad is it?"

"I think you got lucky."

He looked around for something akin to a towel, a piece of cloth, anything. There was a roll of paper towels standing on one of the desks, and for lack of anything better, he ripped off a few, making them into a wad. "This is gonna hurt," he said and pressed it onto the wound.

She let out a yelp, but Peter still kept the pressure on the wound. He took her hand, guiding it to the paper towels. "Keep pressing on it. I'll go get the paramedics."

"Neal," she suddenly let out. "Is Neal okay?"

Peter's face was a stony mask. For all he knew, Neal could be dead. "He— I don't know," he said. "Honey, I'll be right back with you, okay?"

He quickly ran to the front door, calling, "I need a paramedic in here!" One of the agents acknowledged and Peter went back inside.

Elizabeth had struggled upwards into a half lying, half sitting position against one of the file cabinets, her face still contorted in pain. Peter ripped off new paper towels, kneeling back down next to her, pressing the towels on her wound. "Just hang in there, paramedics are on the way."

Her brow creased just a little more. "It... hurts like hell," she said through clenched teeth. "Peter, what happened out there? What about Neal?"

He didn't want to go into it, didn't want to tell her. His voice choked in his throat, finally coming out flat. "He... he was shot. I don't know if he— He went down, I... He told me to save you, so I came to find you, and I—"

Despite her own pain, her eyes clouded over with shock and concern. Two EMTs rushed in at that moment and gently pushed Peter out of the way. He could only watch helplessly as they tended to his wife.

She sucked in another breath as they examined the bullet wound, and Peter clenched his fists. Her blue eyes were suddenly intent on his. "Peter, go and check on Neal."

"No, I'm staying right here."

"Please," she pleaded. "I— Ow!" she let out as one of the EMTs inspected the exit wound. "Neal. I need to know if he's okay."

Peter looked at one of the EMTs who gave him a nod. "We've got this, sir."

"Go," Elizabeth urged again, and Peter relented.

Outside, it was mayhem. FBI agents and SWAT were swarming the scene, ambulance and police car lights were flashing, painting red and blue reflections on the walls. Peter's eyes darted around, trying to find Neal. Paramedics were working on Benson where he had fallen, but Neal was not there anymore.

A gurney was being wheeled towards one of the rigs, and Peter jogged in that direction. Neal's eyes were closed, an IV was hooked up to his arm. His shirt was blood soaked where the bullet had entered and he looked incredibly fragile.

"Neal," Peter let out in a terrified whisper. He turned to one of the paramedics. "Is he going to make it?"

"His vitals are stable for now. We're not sure about the extent of the internal damage. He'll probably need surgery."

"Where are you taking him?"

"NYM. You wanna ride with us?"

"No, my wife is..." he pointed towards the doors to her office. "I'm gonna stay with her."

"All right," he acknowledged. "Look, sir, we need to go."

Peter nodded and watched as they loaded Neal into the ambulance, closing the doors behind them. _'My God,'_ he thought,_ 'Neal, what have you done?'_

* * *

><p>Peter rode with Elizabeth to the hospital, holding her hand the entire time, flinching along with her with every bump in the road they hit. The IV they had hooked up to her was dangling above her head, but the morphine they had administered seemed to make it a little easier.<p>

At New York Methodist, he reluctantly left her side as her gurney was wheeled into an exam room. At the front desk, he tried to get information about Neal, but the admitting nurse couldn't tell him anything other than that he'd been brought up to surgery.

Peter wanted to yell, scream, tear something apart, but he just barely kept it together and paced the waiting room. He needed to be close to El, and if Neal was in surgery, there wasn't anything he could do anyway.

It took over an hour before they let him see her. They had to perform minor surgery to stop the bleeding. The bullet had gone straight through, but luckily it hadn't damaged any lung tissue. The rib it had damaged would take a while to heal, and Elizabeth would have to be admitted for at least a day.

Peter never left her side, and when she came to, he squeezed her hand and spoke soft reassurances that he didn't think registered with her through the anesthetic- and painkiller-induced haze. The bruises on her face still disconcerted him, but he had been assured they looked worse than they were.

When Elizabeth dozed off again, he tried to find a nurse who could tell him about Neal. While she tried to be sympathetic, she couldn't help him, save for the advice to go to the general surgery waiting room since that was where people would usually wait for status updates.

Peter swiveled on his heels to look towards Elizabeth's room, then turned back to the nurse. "I can't leave my wife," he said desperately. "I... I just need to know if my partner's gonna be okay."

The nurse looked at him from apologetic, hazel doe-eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. I wish I could help you."

"Look, can I use my phone?" he suddenly asked.

She didn't look happy but nodded.

"Thank you," Peter said just above a whisper.

He dialed Diana's number who picked up almost right away. "Diana," he asked, his voice somewhere between plea and despair. "I need you at the hospital."

"Which one?" she simply asked.

"New York Methodist. 2nd floor. Room, uh," he looked around, reading off the number of El's room, "Two thirty-five."

Diana arrived not 20 minutes later, and Peter met her outside of El's room. Seeing a familiar face, he gave in to the smallest inkling of relief.

"How is Elizabeth?" Diana asked, her face marred by concern.

"She's going to be fine. Minor surgery, she's still a little out of it. Look," he said, "I need you to check on Neal. I can't leave, but I need to know if he's okay."

"Of course. Where?" she offered readily.

"There's a waiting room in General Surgery. Come get me if you hear anything."

"Sure, Boss."

* * *

><p>Diana found Peter almost three hours later, his head lolling to the side in the chair next to Elizabeth's bed. She lightly touched his shoulders and Peter jerked awake.<p>

"Any news?" he asked, getting up from his chair to take a few steps away from the bed.

"He just came out of surgery. There was considerable internal damage, but the doctor was cautiously optimistic. They'll be able to say more tomorrow."

Peter sucked in a breath that he held briefly. "That's— I guess that's good news."

"Yeah," Diana nodded. "Want me to go back, sit with Neal?"

"No," Peter shook his head. "I... I think they only let family in there anyway." He lightly touched her arm. "Thanks, Diana. It's been a hell of a day. Go home, get some rest."

Her gaze on him was worried as he rubbed his face in a tired gesture. "I wish I could tell you to take your own advice."

"Yeah," he sighed. "But you know I can't."

"You sure you want me to go? I can stick around a while longer."

"No," he shook his head. "It's fine. Go home."

"I should go back to the office."

"You don't have to."

"I know. But still."

"Okay," he confirmed. "Any news on Benson?"

"No, he's still in surgery. They wouldn't tell me anything." Diana held up her hand that was holding Neal's tracking anklet. "Oh, uhm, they gave me this. Said they had to cut it off when they ran some tests. They asked if they needed to notify NYPD. I told them I'd take care of it."

"You know what to do?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I'll talk to the Marshals. I don't think Neal is a flight risk right now."

"Thanks, Diana. Keep me updated?" he asked.

"Of course."

After she left, Peter walked over to the window, closing his eyes as he rubbed his forehead. The relief upon hearing Neal had made it through surgery was short-lived. If Benson died, it would mean he had killed someone. Neal, who didn't like guns. Neal, who had been ready to sacrifice his own life for Elizabeth's, for Peter's. It was... inconceivable.

* * *

><p>Some time around 3 AM, Peter was pulled from his slumber by one of the night nurses who was checking on Elizabeth's IV. Groggily, he asked if everything was okay, and the nurse attested in a hushed voice that everything was fine.<p>

She also told him to go home, which Peter respectfully declined to do.

"At least let me show you how to make yourself more comfortable," she smiled at him. Peter watched in wonder as she made the visitor's chair into what could almost pass for a bed, with a footrest that came up and a reclining backrest.

"Wow, that's pretty cool," he commented.

She gave him a winning smile. "Well, you're not the first family member to keep vigil."

"Thank you," he told her and settled back in the chair. The nurse came back a minute later with a blanket that she handed him. Peter gratefully accepted it and draped it over his legs. Elizabeth never woke during any of it.

* * *

><p>Elizabeth seemed a little more alert in the morning, though the meds were still making her sleepy. She asked for an update on Neal, and Peter could only tell her what Diana had delivered the evening before.<p>

"Go and check on him. Please," she asked, and Peter acquiesced.

It took a while to figure out how to get to the ICU. After some careful persuasion, they let him see Neal. He had to don a see-through, disposable gown and purple gloves before they led him to a room with a large glass front. He was reassured that Neal was doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances. He hadn't regained consciousness yet, but Peter was told that was not unusual after major trauma.

Peter's heart plummeted just a little bit further into his stomach upon seeing Neal lying in the ICU bed, hooked up to monitors, machines, tubes, IVs, blood transfusions. There was no outward sign of physical damage underneath the white sheets that covered him, but he looked so pale, so fragile.

"You can go in if you like," the nurse said in a soft voice, and Peter carefully inched closer.

The nurse went around the bed as one of the machines started beeping. Peter watched helplessly as she studied the readouts, then adjusted the plastic clip on Neal's index finger. The beeping stopped. "Just the pulse oximeter. It's pretty sensitive," she said by way of explanation.

Peter hovered next to the bed, and the nurse gave him a sympathetic look. "You can touch him, talk to him." With a reassuring smile, she added, "I'll leave you alone for a few minutes, but I'm gonna have to ask you to leave after that."

Peter just nodded, his throat dry. His fingers hovered over the bed's railing for a few seconds, unsure, before they finally found their way to Neal's arm. It felt strangely unreal through the nitrile gloves. He tried to overcome the sensation of self-consciousness as he spoke.

"Neal? I... Well, I feel kinda silly, talking to you like this, but, uh—"

He stopped there. Shit, what was he doing? He swallowed, then tried again. "El says hi, she wanted me to check on you. She's doing okay, she's gonna be fine. I know you were worried about her, and..."

He suddenly choked, unexpected tears prickling behind his eyelids. "Dammit, Neal, why did you have to do this?"

He sniffled, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes to wipe away the stray tear that had dislodged. "Listen, I have to go back. You just... You just hang in there, okay?"

* * *

><p>to be continued in<br>Chapter 4


	4. This Is How It Goes

**Chapter 4  
>- This Is How It Goes -<strong>

* * *

><p>The next morning brought only good news, given the circumstances. Elizabeth was doing better and Peter was starting to see the old El shimmering through the fragile, sore exterior and the angry, purple bruise on her cheekbone. The doctors were hopeful she could be released in a day or two. Both Peter and El were tremendously relieved.<p>

In the ICU, he was informed that Neal had regained consciousness in the morning, if only briefly. Peter had been warned not to expect too much as he was led into Neal's room. The antibiotics, pain medication and sedatives being delivered into his blood stream were potent and effectively knocked anyone out, save for brief moments of semi-consciousness.

Neal's eyelids fluttered open a few minutes into Peter's stay, accompanied by a soft moan. Peter was immediately worried and lightly touched Neal's arm. "Hey, Neal. It's me, Peter."

"Peter..." Neal rasped, confusion in his eyes.

Peter wasn't sure if the reaction had been genuine recognition or just a repetition of a name.

"My back... hurts," Neal murmured, and Peter immediately went to look for a nurse.

When they came back to Neal's room, Peter stood back and watched how the nurse adjusted something by the perfusors, checking his IV and catheter. She looked at Peter as if she was annoyed that he'd interrupted her routine. "He shouldn't be in any pain," she just said and left.

Peter went back to Neal's bedside, noticing that Neal could barely keep his eyes open. "Hey, buddy. Does it still hurt?"

"Just... a little," Neal said barely above a whisper.

Peter carefully felt for Neal's arm and squeezed it a little. "Just hang in there. They're taking good care of you."

By the time Peter looked back at Neal's face, he had drifted off again.

* * *

><p>The vibration of his cell phone in his pocket roused Peter from his slumber. A quick look at his watch told him he must have dozed off in the chair next to Elizabeth's bed.<p>

"Hello?" he groggily picked up the call.

"Agent Burke? This is Angela Taylor from New York Methodist Hospital ICU."

Something clamped tight in Peter's stomach. Did something happen to Neal?

"Yes, this is Agent Burke," he confirmed.

She continued, "Sir, you said to call you if something happened to Mr. Caffrey, and I'm afraid we're having a bit of a situation down here."

His throat was suddenly dry. "What kind of a situation?"

"There's someone here from the Marshal's office, and he handcuffed Mr. Caffrey to his bed. Mr. Caffrey has been very agitated, and he's already ripped out his IV twice. I'm not sure he's realizing what's going on, but he did mention your name."

"Shit," Peter hissed under his breath. "Can you hold the Marshals until I'm there? I'm on my way."

"I will try, sir."

"Thank you," he said, "I'll be right there."

Hurrying into the ICU, Peter recognized the US Marshal's face. He vaguely recalled that the guy's name was Hansen, one of Deckard's men who had been involved in Neal's parole deal before. Hansen was standing in front of Neal's room, positively glaring at the nurse inside who was fussing about with Neal's IV. Peter could see that both of Neal's wrists were handcuffed to the bed's railing.

Peter walked straight up to the guy. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he said without preamble.

"And good morning to you too, Agent Burke."

"Cut the crap, Hansen. Give me one good reason why this is necessary."

"Come on, Burke. You know it's procedure. Caffrey is out of his anklet, and you know how the rules for the restraint of unsupervised felons work."

"These rules apply to felons who are considered a flight risk. Can't you see that Caffrey's in no shape to flee, let alone get out of this bed?"

"Well, maybe that's what he'd like to make you believe."

Peter wanted to punch the guy in the face. He fought hard to keep his breathing under control. "No. You're not doing this. I'm not having him handcuffed to the bed. Either you get him a new anklet in the next half hour or I'm filing an official complaint that you've been harassing a federal employee."

"Federal employee my ass," Hansen muttered, and Peter whirled around, pinning him to the wall with both his hands on Hansen's biceps.

"Listen to me very carefully, Hansen. Mr. Caffrey here risked his life to stop a violent criminal from getting away from the scene. He shot himself to take down the perp, which nearly killed both of them. That is more than any of you clowns would have done. And I swear to God, if you don't uncuff him within the next two minutes, I am going to shred your ass faster than you can say OPR." He pinned Hansen to the wall a little more for good measure before he released his grip on him.

Hansen looked disgusted, but did as Peter told him. Peter watched through the window as he removed the handcuffs from Neal's wrists, pocketing them as he exited the room. In passing, he turned to Peter, "If Caffrey runs, this'll be on you."

Peter didn't grace him with a response, knowing full well that Neal would not, _could_ not run in his current state.

Once he had calmed down a little, Peter went to the nurse's station, making sure it wouldn't be an issue to have a new anklet put on Neal, apprising them of the fact that someone from the Marshal's office might be coming back to do just that. He was told it wasn't ideal but that it was preferable to having Neal chained to the bed with handcuffs.

Peter stopped by Neal's room afterwards, giving him a cautious once-over. "Neal?" he asked, and Neal opened his eyes.

"They cuffed me," he said groggily.

"I know. I had them take the cuffs off again. Neal, I'm sorry. I didn't know they were going to restrain you."

"It's okay," he mumbled.

"No, it's very much _not_ okay. They're going to put a new anklet on you later. Do you understand?"

Neal didn't react, and Peter repeated, "Neal, do you understand what I'm saying? They're going to put a new anklet on, and I want you to know that's been cleared with me."

"Anklet. Got it."

Peter wasn't so sure he had, but he realized it was the best he would get for now. He gently patted Neal's leg before he left. "I'll be back later, okay?"

* * *

><p>After a quick stop by Elizabeth's hospital room, Peter had to go to the Bureau to handle some of the aftermath of the incident the day before.<p>

Benson had made it through the surgery and was also in the ICU, a few rooms down from where Neal was. The prognosis was a little more shaky for Benson, the shot had shredded his lung artery, but it was said he wasn't in critical condition anymore. Peter consider this good news because things would have gotten a lot more complicated if Benson had not survived the shot.

It was well into the afternoon by the time all the urgent business in the office was squared away, Hughes gave him PTO to take care of his wife. Peter took the laptop and put it in the trunk, just in case he needed to work from home.

Back in the hospital, Peter first went to see Neal again, suspecting Elizabeth would want an update. He hadn't told her about the incident with Hansen that morning, and he wasn't intent on burdening her unnecessarily right now.

Neal was sleeping when Peter got to his room and he didn't want to wake him. He carefully lifted the sheets at the foot of the bed, and sure enough, the black plastic device encasing his ankle had been put in place—the same model he'd been wearing before.

The sympathetic nurse that had helped him the first time he was there was on the afternoon shift, and Peter asked her how Neal was doing. She gave him an encouraging smile and explained that Neal was doing as well as could be expected. If his progress kept up its pace, they were thinking about transferring him to the regular ward in a day or two.

"He's one of our more docile patients," she told Peter, who surmised she hadn't heard about what had transpired earlier that day. "You know, you sometimes get the ones we call 'thrashers', those that resist a lot, and you get the 'complainers'. But Mr. Caffrey has been very agreeable. Everyone loves him."

Peter couldn't hide a small smirk. "You should wait until he's back on his game."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, he can be quite the charmer."

She shrugged, almost disappointedly. "Unfortunately, we don't usually see our patients when they're back on their game. The ICU's kind of a fast moving place. You family?"

"No, I'm... I'm his partner." After a beat, so that she wouldn't get the wrong idea, he added, "I mean, at work."

"NYPD?"

"FBI."

"Oh. Hey, uhm, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Peter said.

"I noticed he's wearing some kind of electronic anklet. What's with the deal with that?"

"It's, uh... It's kind of complicated. And I'm sure he'll hate me for telling you all this, but he's out on a work release, helping the FBI solve White Collar cases for the remainder of his sentence."

"So he's a criminal?"

"Technically, yes."

"What was he convicted for," she asked.

"Bond forgery."

She took a long look at Neal. "If you don't mind me saying this, he doesn't look like a criminal."

Peter pursed his lips in amusement. "Yeah, he's got that going for him. And that's part of why it took me three years to arrest him."

"You arrested him?" she gaped at Peter.

"Yeah. Twice. He was pretty docile then too."

"Hang on, _twice_?"

"It's... kind of a long story."

"Sounds like it."

Peter turned and pointed at the door. "I, uhm, I gotta go, see my wife. Can you tell him I was here when he wakes up?"

"Yes, of course," she acknowledged before Peter left.

Arriving back in Elizabeth's room, she looked even more like her usual self than she had that morning, and Peter allowed himself a silent sigh of relief.

A mug of tea stood on the bedside table and she smiled at him from her bed. Considering she had been pretty out of it the day before, it was actually quite amazing how alert she seemed today.

"How'd things go at the office?" she inquired.

"Okay, I guess. The team is on top of things, so Hughes told me to take some time."

She looked at him inquiringly. "Honey, you still owe me the whole story. All I know is that Neal and Benson were shot in front of the building. What happened out there? Did Neal accidentally get in the line of fire?"

"No, it wasn't quite like that," he said. He knew he'd have to tell her eventually, and he wasn't sure how she would take it. He knew she'd feel guilty, she'd blame herself for what Neal had done.

"Peter, what happened?" she urged him. "What are you not telling me?"

"El," he sighed, "Neal, he... He shot himself."

Her eyes grew wider. "He what?"

"I mean, not like suicide. It was—" He scrubbed a weary hand over his face. "From what we've been able to piece together, Benson first shot you, then took Neal hostage. He dragged Neal to the door, used him as a human shield. He was good, it was impossible to get a clear shot. Benson was getting away, and Neal, he—"

Peter's voice caught in his throat as he was reliving the incident. "I don't know what he was thinking. Maybe he thought you were dying, maybe something in his brain just flipped. He must have seen no other way to stop Benson. I'm not even really sure how anymore, but Neal, he... grabbed hold of Benson's hand with the gun and shot himself through the stomach, taking Benson down with him."

The shock at the news was evident on her face, her blue eyes a notch wider. One hand was clasped over her mouth. "No," she said in a hollow whisper, her eyes clouded over by a sheen of moisture. "Why would he do that?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know."

"I wanna see him," she said, sudden resolution in her voice.

"El, you're in no shape—"

"I wanna see him," she repeated, her voice determined. "The doctors said I need to walk around more to get back on my feet. I don't see why I can't walk to the ICU."

"Okay, fine," Peter finally gave in, knowing that once his wife had her mind set on something, it was nearly impossible to persuade her otherwise. Ten minutes later, Peter found him and El taking the elevator to the ICU.

He had to help her into the gown and gloves, and almost told her this was a bad idea when her grimaces of pain at moving around so much turned into sucked in hisses of breath. However, the determined lines on her forehead and the look in her eyes told him to keep his mouth shut.

Elizabeth grew a shade paler as she stood in front of the glass window, looking at Neal's unmoving form. Her voice sounded haunted. "He looks so fragile."

Peter squeezed her hand. "Do you still want to go in?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Peter followed close behind her as they entered the room, watching vigilantly as his wife edged closer to Neal's bedside. She turned around and looked at her husband questioningly. "Is he... I— I don't want to wake him."

Peter just shrugged the smallest of shrugs. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you," he volunteered.

"Do you think he remembers?"

"I... I'm not sure. He's kinda been in and out, I really don't know how clearly he can think right now."

Elizabeth gently touched Neal's hand. "Neal? Honey?"

He stirred ever so slightly, blinking at her in confusion at first. "El," he finally croaked.

A warm smile spread across her lips. "Yeah, it's me." She gestured to where her husband stood. "Peter's here too."

"That's... that's good."

"Yeah," she said through the smile. "That's good."

"I'm so thirsty," Neal said, lifting the hand with the pulse ox clip ever so slightly.

Peter gave her a reassuring look that said, 'I'll go get someone.'

Her gaze went over the room to see if there was a cup or a bottle anywhere in view, but the absence of any such object told her he probably wasn't allowed to ingest anything just yet. "Honey, we'll see if we can get you something to drink, okay?"

"Okay," he acknowledged, closing his eyes for a long second before he reopened them.

Peter came back a minute later with a cup full of small ice chips. "They said we could give him these."

El took the cup and held it up so Neal could see it. "Honey, you can't drink yet, but you can have these, okay?"

Neal gave a small nod, his brow creasing in discomfort as he lifted his head from the pillow. El carefully slipped an ice chip into his mouth and Neal visibly relaxed.

She squeezed his hand. "We were so worried about you, Neal."

"'S okay," he mumbled, sucking on the frozen water. "I'm okay."

Her smile was bittersweet. "Oh, sweetie, I wish you were, but you're gonna be."

Neal blinked up at her, his eyes not missing that something was off. They caught on the bruises on her face, the disposable gown and the bathrobe that shimmered through underneath. It seemed to spark a memory.

"He shot you," Neal suddenly said. "I... I thought you were—" the word caught in his throat.

"Oh Neal." She squeezed his hand a little tighter. "Yes, he shot me. I was admitted here too, but the bullet just barely hit my side." She gave a little chuckle. "Guess I'm lucky Benson is a bad shot."

"Did he... Did Benson make it?"

"Yes," Peter piped in. "He's actually right here, in the ICU. There was rather extensive internal damage from the bullet which they've managed to repair."

Neal's gaze went back to Elizabeth. "And you...? I mean, you're okay, right?"

She gave him a genuine smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. A little sore, but okay."

"You're okay," he repeated, an exhausted kind of relief in his voice. He turned his head back to a more comfortable position, letting his eyelids droop closed.

El gave his hair a last caress. "Get some rest, Neal. We'll be back to visit, I promise."

From his lack of a response, she wasn't sure he hadn't already drifted back into slumber. She gave Peter a look and they quietly left.

Back in the small changing room, Elizabeth sat down on one of the chairs after Peter had helped her out of the gown. She looked spent and Peter sat down on the chair next to her, drawing her into a gentle sideways embrace, careful not to aggravate her injured ribs. She leaned her head back into the crook of his neck and he let his hand rub over her upper arm.

"He's tough. He's going to be all right," he whispered into her hair, giving it a soft kiss.

She nodded ever so slightly, sniffling just a little bit. "How did this happen, Peter? How does an FBI consultant shoot himself to prevent a criminal from getting away with a whole armada of agents watching as he does so?"

She pushed away from his embrace. "How did you let this happen?"

He was suddenly taken aback, he had not expected this. "_Let_ this happen? El, you weren't there. It's not like we stood by and did nothing. Benson used Neal as a human shield. We couldn't shoot, it would have— Neal would've—"

"Been shot?" she finished.

"No," he said, his voice suddenly crestfallen. He stood up from the chair, took two, three steps away from her. "No, you're not pinning this on me."

He walked over to the small window, looking outside. He leafed a weary hand through his hair, feeling his strength ebb, feeling the exhaustion catching up with him. Something in the back of his throat constricted as he felt the tears threatening to form. He swallowed, drawing in a deep breath to quell the sob that was working its way up his chest.

In a shaky voice, he said, "I watched him go down, El. I saw it all. God, I— I wish I could have stopped him. But it was too late, I was too late. Do you know what he said before he pulled the trigger? He shouted, 'Go save Elizabeth!' And I watched him go down and ran to you. I— Dammit, I should've... I—"

He caught on the words, blinking against the tears.

There was a long silence. It gave Peter time to control the unfamiliar emotions, regain some composure. It was Elizabeth's voice that broke the eerie quietness.

"Peter..." she started. "Are you... are you saying Neal shot himself to save _me_?"

He turned around, met her gaze. "I... Honestly, I don't know what he was thinking, but that might've been part of it."

"No," she said in a whisper, then louder, "No. I can't— I can't believe he'd— Why would he do such a thing?"

Peter sighed, the exhaustion, the lassitude tangible. "I wish I had any answers."

Her hand was clasped to her mouth as it sank in. "He almost killed himself. He— What if— What if he hadn't made it? I don't even wanna think about it. And, God, Peter, you saw it all. That must have been horrible. I can't imagine..."

"Yeah," he said, turning back to face the window, looking at the wall of an uninspiring building on the opposite side of the street. "It _was_ horrible. And I wish so much that I could go back and undo it."

"Oh Honey," she said, as her soft footsteps padded closer, her warm hands soothingly finding his upper arms. "I know you do. But there's something we can do right now. We need to make sure Neal gets whatever he needs."

Peter turned around, looking at his wife. "You don't know how much I love you for saying that, but we also need to make sure you get what _you_ need. Which is your bed and lots of rest."

"I have no objections to that," she sighed. "Just please go back tomorrow and make sure Neal has what he needs, okay?"

"I'm going to go back here first thing in the morning if you want me to."

She squeezed his arms. "Thank you."

Together they made their way back up to Elizabeth's hospital room. She dozed off as soon as she had settled down. Peter lovingly drew up the sheets and tucked her in, giving her a soft kiss on the head before he settled down in the visitor's chair to keep watch for a little while longer.

* * *

><p>The next morning, things went very quickly when Peter got to the hospital. El had urged him to go home the night before so he could get a proper night's sleep. The truth was, without her lying next to him, he'd had a hard time falling asleep and had woken multiple times during the night.<p>

Her stitches checked, her wound newly dressed, the doctors had given Elizabeth the go-ahead to be discharged with the instructions to follow up with her primary care physician. Peter was given a quick guide on how to redress the wound at home by one of the nurses.

She still let out a barely suppressed moan as Peter helped her into a loose-fitting shirt. All dressed and ready to go, Elizabeth asked to use the opportunity to see Neal again.

When they got to the ICU, there was commotion in Neal's room, which they found out was due to the fact that he was being transferred to the regular ward. They let El and Peter in for a minute, and they were relieved to find Neal more alert than he had been during previous visits.

"Hey buddy," Peter greeted him. "So you're getting out of here, huh?"

"Yeah, about time," Neal grumbled. "The constant beeping was really driving me crazy."

"Wait till you find out you're sharing that new room with a grumpy, snoring retiree," Peter smirked.

"Don't jinx it, Peter." The weak grin that accompanied the statement made Peter hopeful, because it was—if only barely—reminiscent of the old Neal Caffrey.

Elizabeth stepped closer to the bed and rested her hand on Neal's knee. "Glad to see you doing better."

"I could say the same thing."

"Yeah, I'm actually being discharged today."

The corners of Neal's mouth curved upwards ever so slightly. "That's great news."

"Yeah," she beamed. "Great news all around. Must be our lucky day."

Neal shifted slightly in his bed, wincing as he did so. "I wish."

Peter saw two of the nurses approaching the room, so he told Neal, "Looks like they're getting ready to move you. I heard you've been nice to the nurses. Keep that up."

"Always," Neal said, looking more exhausted now. "You'll still come and visit, right?"

"Oh, of course."

"El too?" he asked softly, hopefully.

"Yes, me too," she confirmed.

"Oh, and Neal?" Peter suddenly remembered something. "I can't reach Mozzie. I've been trying to contact him for days now. I thought he'd want to know."

"Said he had out of town business. Did you use his emergency e-mail?"

"I don't _have_ his emergency e-mail. Just a cell phone number that's out of service."

Neal drew in a breath, scrunching up his forehead in an effort to think. "Check my cell phone," he then said, his eyes closed, sounding as if he was about to nod off.

"I need your PIN number."

"Three one seven two," Neal mumbled.

The nurses gave Peter and Elizabeth a sign that it was time to leave. As he watched them wheel Neal's bed out of the ICU, Peter suddenly realized what Neal had just given him. The PIN number to his cell phone. It either meant he trusted him with all the information that was in there, or Neal was still in enough of a drug-induced haze that he hadn't realized he'd just given Peter the key to open Neal's version of Aladdin's cave.

* * *

><p>to be continued in<br>Chapter 5


	5. Bring Me Home

**Chapter 5  
>- Bring Me Home -<strong>

* * *

><p>The next days were a blur. Peter was in and out of the hospital, seeing Neal slowly improve. When he wasn't visiting Neal, he was with Elizabeth at home, making her as comfortable as he could. He cooked (until Elizabeth got bored with pot roast and fried potatoes and took back control of the catering in the Burkes' home), he walked the dog, he did laundry, he cleaned the house. At one point, he even joked that it felt almost like back in his bachelor student days.<p>

When Peter wasn't there, Elizabeth's sister Mary-Ann took over the Burkes' household, which Peter was very grateful for. He'd never gotten along all that well with Elizabeth's side of the family (who he thought resented him for making their Elizabeth marry a guy in law enforcement who put his life on the line every other day), but the more time he spent with Mary-Ann over coffee at their dining table while El was resting in bed or on the couch, the more he grew to respect her. Maybe this enforced family bonding wasn't such a bad thing after all.

It took over a week of pampering and clumsy attempts at nursing on Peter's part for Elizabeth to feel halfway normal again. After many reassurances that she would be fine on her own, Peter went back to work in the office. A day later, the bruises on her face having faded to the faintest of yellows, her stitches were removed and the doctor asserted that her injuries were healing nicely.

The Benson investigation had pretty much been wrapped up at that point. He would be standing trial for several charges brought against him, among them two counts of attempted murder, as soon as he was fit to do so. Elizabeth and Neal would be asked to testify at the trial.

Neal was slowly becoming a pain in the neck. When Peter wasn't annoyed about it (which was usually right when he was with Neal at the hospital), he was grateful because it meant he was doing better. They'd taken him off the morphine (which was making him drowsy), were weaning him off the antibiotics (which messed with his appetite), and gotten him off the IV (which meant he had to drink more)—and Neal was getting bored and cranky.

One day, Peter had come home and told Elizabeth, "Can you please go and visit him alone tomorrow? One more minute in a room with him, and I'm gonna throw inanimate objects."

She had just given him a wistful smile and said, yes, of course she was going to visit Neal tomorrow.

Thankfully, Mozzie was back in town as well, which was both a curse and a blessing. Although Peter would not have expected it (Mozzie was the biggest germaphobe he knew), Mozzie actually made it a point to visit Neal often. What didn't go so great was that he blamed Peter for a) not telling him right away about the whole incident (even though Peter protested that he'd _tried_) and b) getting Neal shot in the first place.

Two days later, Peter was back at Neal's bedside, and Neal was uncharacteristically quiet. No smug banter, no halfhearted complaints. Peter grew immediately worried. Neal looked a little flushed, and Peter's hand reached out to feel his forehead with the back of his hand.

Neal closed his eyes as he did so, and Peter's brow furrowed in concern. "Feels like you're running a fever."

"Apparently, I am," Neal mumbled meekly. "101.3, last time they checked."

"Should I be worried?"

"I don't know. The doctors don't think it's a big deal. Could be a minor infection, they said. Happens all the time."

"Let me go find someone," Peter said.

Neal's hand around his wrist stopped him. "No. It's fine. They upped the antibiotics. I'm fine."

"Like hell you are."

"Peter..." Neal pleaded, and Peter acceded.

It was a very subdued visit that day. Peter asked what he could do, and Neal just asked him to talk. So Peter talked—about his day at the office, his time at home with Elizabeth, his bonding opportunities with Mary-Ann. He talked until Neal dozed off into a light slumber, which Peter thought he could use for a bio break.

It was Neal's voice that stopped Peter before he had reached the door. "Are you leaving?"

"No. No, I just... need the restroom."

As Peter quietly closed the door behind him, he realized what Neal had really meant to say. _Don't go._ Peter wouldn't, not for a while.

He found one of the nurses and asked if he could do anything. She gave him a motherly smile and said short of putting a cool washcloth on Neal's forehead, they were already doing everything they could to get the fever down. She also reassured him that so far, there was no real reason for concern, as long as the fever didn't shoot up or persist.

Back in Neal's room, even though he felt more than a little self-conscious, Peter took one of the kidney basins in the adjacent bathroom, filled it with cold water and took one of the towels to Neal's bedside. The noise got Neal's attention and he groggily asked, "What are you doing?"

"Just... lay back," Peter hushed him and wrung the towel out over the basin, placing it on Neal's forehead.

Neal's breathing evened out and he visibly relaxed. "Thank you," he said in a thready voice.

"Yeah," Peter just answered.

He got a text message out to Elizabeth, telling her what was happening and that he was going to be home late. Half an hour later, she entered the room, a half worried, half encouraging smile on her lips. Peter shushed her with his index finger to his lips, indicating that Neal had dozed off again.

The concerned frown on her forehead matched Peter's, and her big, blue eyes lingered on a Neal who looked paltry and fragile. "Are you sure it's nothing serious?" she asked.

He shrugged slightly. "That's what everyone keeps saying. It's just... I think he really doesn't wanna be alone right now."

She went to stand behind Peter in the chair, bending down to plant a kiss on his head. "Which is only understandable. He's sick and miserable and achy, in a place that's less than warm and welcoming. Would you want to be alone?"

Elizabeth pulled up the second chair and they kept watching Neal without talking. After a while Elizabeth said into the silence, "I really wish we could take him home, make him more comfortable."

"I think the hospital is the right place for him right now."

"Oh, I know that. Just... you know, once he gets released."

"Well, we could put him in the guest room. At least until he's back on his feet."

"You'd seriously consider that?" Elizabeth asked him, surprised.

He shrugged. "Wouldn't you?"

"I can see him in our house. I mean, it would only be temporary."

They were both startled when Neal's voice interrupted them. "Please tell me you're talking about your uncle Herbert and not me."

Peter and Elizabeth looked at each other, slightly amused. "We weren't talking about Uncle Herbert," Peter said.

"I'm flattered and all," Neal said, "But I don't really think that's necessary. I'll be fine at June's house. Her housekeeper can get me what I need, and I'm sure June wouldn't mind taking over some duties herself. And there's always Moz..."

Peter gave him a 'you're-not-serious' look. "Neal, really. We think it would be the best option."

Neal wrestled his body up a bit straighter, emitting a pained groan as he did so. "Yeah, maybe we should be crossing that bridge when we come to it. As much as I'd like to get out of this place, I can't see it happening all that soon."

It was then that a nurse came in, placing a thermometer in Neal's ear. "100.9. Looks like we're heading in the right direction, Mr. Caffrey."

"Wonderful," Neal said sarcastically.

The nurse looked at Peter and El. "It's getting late. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave soon."

Elizabeth nodded. "That's fine. We'll be going in a few minutes."

Neal looked stricken for a split second, and didn't manage to hide it quickly enough. El took his hand and squeezed it, planting a kiss on his forehead, her lips lingering for a long moment. "I'll be back tomorrow morning. I promise. And think about our offer."

Peter stood by his side and looked at Neal. "You know, I'd tell you to cowboy up, but..."

"Thanks, Peter," Neal said, the sarcasm back in his voice. "It's nice to see you being so empathetic."

Peter patted his thigh. "Just hang in there."

"Don't see that I have much of a choice," Neal muttered as Peter and El left the room.

* * *

><p>It took almost two more weeks for Neal to regain his strength enough to be discharged. Neal received a frequent stream of visitors: Peter, El, Mozzie and June of course (Alex too), and the occasional visit from colleagues (even Sara Ellis had dropped by once—which had made Neal feel very self-conscious about the fact that he was looking and feeling very unlike his usually impeccable self). But despite the company, Neal was starting to go stir-crazy.<p>

His sketchbook would offer some distraction at times (but never enough) and after the first week in the general surgery ward, he thought he'd watched enough daytime television to last him a lifetime. He'd watched "The Sting" at least three times, which seemed to be on constant rerun on one or the other cable channel.

He'd read more books in the last three weeks than he'd read over the last six months. He'd even begged Peter to bring him a few files (even mortgage fraud), just so he had something to occupy his mind. (Peter had declined, insisting that Neal was on sick leave and shouldn't be working.) By the time he could crawl out of bed and creep along the hospital hallways at snail speed on shaky legs, he'd never been so impatiently edgy in his whole life.

Yes, of course the four years in prison had been taxing in that regard too. But that had been different. He'd been himself then, or a rather reasonable facsimile of himself—as much as the orange jumpsuit and bad prison food allowed. Now, he was achy and weak and dependent. And he hated every aspect of it.

Peter and Elizabeth had been a blessing, even though Neal had a hard time admitting it. He'd long given up trying to keep up his guard in Elizabeth's presence, because she had seen him at his worst. It was different with Peter, there were so many underlying implications in the mix. Still, dignity was not one of the things Neal had to worry about anymore where Peter was concerned, because there was no such thing when someone saw you with a week's worth of stubble and greasy hair, or watched nurses getting the commode chair for you to meet your bodily needs.

In the end, it had been Elizabeth who had linked her arm with his and provided both moral and physical support when he made his first trip to the hospital's cafeteria. And, damn, proper coffee was so worth the gargantuan effort, even if it wasn't Italian roast.

And in all this time, they had never really talked about what had happened. Sure, Peter had made a few attempts, but Neal had always deflected, and Peter's guilty conscience had given in. El didn't seem intent on talking about it either, but Peter knew she was occasionally waking up from nightmares that he suspected had to do with the incident. And it wasn't like he was sleeping all too soundly either. The thought had occurred to him that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to get some professional counseling.

Now Neal was sitting in the visitor's chair in his hospital room with a packed bag next to him when Peter came to pick him up in the late morning.

"Enjoying a new point of view?" Peter asked with an amused smile playing on his lips.

"I must admit that it's preferable to the one I've had for the past weeks."

"You ready to go?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe how ready I am."

Just then a nurse came in with a wheelchair, shrugging apologetically. "Hospital policy," she said, pointing at the wheelchair.

Neal didn't even protest as he heaved himself into it rather awkwardly. Peter picked up the bag and they made their way to where he'd parked the Taurus.

Once Neal had wrestled himself into the passenger seat (Peter had to resist the urge to help, but a look that could kill from Neal had quelled the impulse), Peter told him, "Just so you know, I'm taking you to our house."

"Peter—"

"No discussion. El has set up the guest room and everything. There's proper food waiting for you. She also made sure to pick up a few things from June's house."

"That's really not necessary," Neal feebly protested.

"Neal..." Peter said in a threatening tone, and Neal lifted his hands in defeat.

"All right, all right."

In the Burkes' home, Peter parked Neal on the couch while he carried the bag upstairs. He considered checking it for dirty laundry but then thought better of it because it somehow seemed like an invasion of privacy.

Back downstairs in the kitchen, he called to Neal, "Okay, we have leftover lasagna from last night or pastrami and cheese sandwich."

"The lasagna sounds great," Neal called back. "Let me come help you."

Peter exited the kitchen to stand looking at Neal from the dining area. "You're doing no such thing. You are going to sit there and not move. Or, well, at the most make your way over to the table to sit _there_ and not move."

Neal's easy affirmation of, "Fine," told Peter that he'd made the right decision, bringing Neal here instead of letting him fend for himself in his fourth story studio apartment.

Ten minutes later, he set the plate with the steaming pasta dish in front of a tired looking Neal at the dining table.

"Hey, uhm, listen. I need to go back to the Bureau for a while. El said she was going to come home after her client meeting. Will you be okay on your own for a little while?"

"Yeah, of course," Neal said through a mouthful of lasagna. "I'm not an invalid, you know?"

"Well, you know where things are, just help yourself. The guest room is set up, so if you wanna take a nap or something... And Neal? Don't be a hero. If there's anything, just call, all right?"

"Yes, Peter," he said in mock subservience.

"Neal, I'm serious. The last thing I wanna hear is that you tore your stitches when I come home."

"They removed those, remember? But I promise, Peter, I'll be a good boy."

Peter gave him one last look that said he wasn't so sure, but chose to take Neal at face value before he grabbed his suit jacket and left.

* * *

><p>to be continued in<br>Chapter 6


	6. Until I'm Fine

**Chapter 6  
>- Until I'm Fine -<strong>

* * *

><p>Neal had stayed with the Burkes for a week now, and things were becoming easier every day. He wasn't panting like a patient with heart insufficiency anymore after navigating the stairs, there weren't as many winces and moans and grimaces of pain as there used to be (or else Neal knew how to hide them better). He'd even taken Satchmo for a short walk to the nearby park on occasion.<p>

Friday evening had both Peter and El coming home with lines of exhaustion on their faces. Peter and his team had finally wrapped up a complicated investment banking scam, and Elizabeth had struggled to get a reception organized for a particularly demanding client. Neal had surprised them with a three course dinner he'd cooked from scratch, and especially his asparagus cream soup found many admirers at the Burkes' dinner table.

With stomachs lavishly filled and napkins crumpled on the table, the atmosphere was relaxed and content. Peter got up after a while, clearing away the dishes with the words, "Let me take care of these."

Neal gingerly leaned back in his seat. "So, uhm... I've been thinking. Maybe it's time I went back to my own place."

Elizabeth fixed her gaze on him. "Are you sure? You know we love to have you."

He looked at her gratefully. "I know you do. But I think it's time I got my own life back. I mean, it's not like I feel restrained here, it's just..."

"I understand," she said sympathetically. "There's no place like home."

_Home, _Neal thought. Did he even consider his Manhattan apartment his home? If the answer was no, then it was surely the closest thing he'd had to a home in a long time.

"So you won't be upset if I moved back to June's?"

"Oh Honey, of course not. I just wanna make sure that you're ready."

"I think I am," he admitted.

"Well, then I guess it's settled."

Neal breathed a silent sigh of relief. He'd been a little afraid of this conversation, knowing Elizabeth's strong motherly instinct.

Both of them were silent for a long moment, and the awkward glance they shared was pregnant with meaning. They'd both known the moment would come, the moment where they'd have to broach the subject that had been hanging over them for so long.

"Neal..." Elizabeth started in a low voice.

"Yeah. I know," he simply said.

"We'll have to talk about it eventually."

"I don't want to," he said, his expression pained.

"I know you don't, but I think it'll be good. For both of us."

"What happened that day, it's... I mean, I wish I could go back and— And _do_ something. Do something more."

"Oh Neal, what more could you have done? I mean, look at you. What you've done, it's unimaginable. You almost killed yourself to save Peter. To save me. I don't ever know how we can possibly repay that."

Peter suddenly spoke up, "Neal, why _did_ you shoot yourself? Why would you do that?"

Neal lifted his head and realized Peter was now standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes dark and intense. Neal swallowed, trying to find an answer that he could put into words. He came up empty, so he shrugged, lifting his hands helplessly. "I... I don't know."

"You don't know?" Peter asked. "How do you point a weapon at yourself and pull the trigger and not know?"

Neal raised his voice defensively. "I just don't know, all right? It all went so quickly. The guy almost molested your wife, Peter. He threatened to kill Elizabeth in front of your eyes, then shot her in the chest. I thought she was dying. He kept threatening you, and you were letting him get away. I had to do _some_thing!"

Peter now raised his voice to match. "You don't shoot yourself to let a perp get away, Neal—almost killing yourself in the process. Did you even realize how dangerous that was?"

Neal let out a hollow, cynical laugh. "Yeah. The thought had actually occurred to me. But you know what? Back then, it didn't matter."

Elizabeth's gaze was suddenly boring into him. "Neal, it was just shy of suicide. How could it not _matter_?"

He shifted his torso forward and lowered his head, idly picking at the light green napkin between his fingers. The admission came over his lips before he could stop it. "I... I know what you mean to each other, how much you love each other. And then there was Benson, and I saw everything going to hell, and suddenly it wasn't important anymore what happened to me as long as there was a chance to save you."

Elizabeth's big, blue eyes filled with tears, and she reached out with both hands across the table, taking Neal's in hers. "I should be angry at you for being such a fool, but I need you to know how much that... that—" she struggled with the words, the tears dislodging and trickling down her face.

He looked up and met her eyes. "It's okay," he said just above a whisper.

"No," she said in half a sob, half a laugh. "No, Neal, there is nothing remotely okay about this."

Peter took a step closer, standing behind Elizabeth with his hands resting on her shoulders, as if he wanted to form a connection to Neal through her. "Neal, you need to understand that your life is just as important as ours—as anyone's. And you need to understand that you can't pull a stunt like this ever again. Do you hear me?"

He looked up at Peter, briefly, his eyes flickering away again. "Yeah," he breathed.

"I need more from you than that," Peter insisted.

Neal pulled his hands away from Elizabeth's, leaning back in his chair. "What do you want from me, Peter? I've already bared my soul."

"I want for this to get through that thick skull of yours."

Neal's voice was suddenly bitter. "And here I thought I'd earned some gratefulness from you."

That hurt, and Neal knew it, regretting it almost the instant it had left his lips.

Peter let his hands sink down next to his body. His voice was suddenly thick with emotion. "Neal, I'm sorry. I _am_ grateful. More than you can imagine. But it was just... watching you do that to yourself, the surgery, not knowing if you were going to make it—I don't... I don't ever wanna go through that again."

The silence that hung in the air was heavy, laden with unspoken words. Elizabeth self-consciously wiped at her tears and Peter turned away to look out the window into the back yard. Neal drew in a long breath that he held, getting up from his chair. It seemed this conversation was over, yet somehow it wasn't.

Elizabeth got up too, moving closer to Neal. "Neal..." she said, unexpectedly pulling him into a gentle hug. He held on for a few seconds before they separated. Her hand squeezed his upper arm reassuringly. "This has been hard on all of us. But we're glad to have you back."

Neal gave her a fond look, unsure what to say. He looked at Peter, who was eyeing him cautiously. Neal said, "I'm sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to—"

Peter stopped him with the gesture of a hand. "Don't, Neal."

"So... are we good?"

Peter gave him the slightest of smiles. "We're good. But if you want me to hug you..."

Neal chuckled. "No. No, it's all right."

"Okay," Peter said.

"Okay," Neal echoed.

And that was that.

* * *

><p>The same evening, with Neal staying one last night in the guest room, Peter settled into his own bed where Elizabeth was already lying with the lamp on the bedside table on, reading one of crime novels she loved so much.<p>

Peter shifted the pillow around, trying to find a comfortable position. He rolled over onto his side, trying to rest, then rolled back on his back. Elizabeth gave him a quizzical look.

"Honey, what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Well, that's a whole lot of nothing that has you tossing and turning."

"It's just... there was something Neal said earlier. Something about Benson almost molesting you. I mean, I know he hit you, but now it sounds like there was something more to it."

Elizabeth suddenly looked uncomfortable, putting the book away. "Honey," she started, then fell silent again.

Peter's sense of comprehension immediately flared, his face stricken. "No. God no, please don't tell me he—"

"No," she quickly interrupted. "No, he, he didn't do anything. I mean, he tried, but..."

"Was Neal there? El, please tell me what happened," he whispered hollowly.

"It was... before Neal got there. I— I'm not sure I really remember much. He just— One moment he was threatening me with the gun, the next he was all over me. I guess I must have struggled, I think I even bit him. He let go of me after that, and then Neal came, and..."

Elizabeth fell silent, and Peter looked at her, still shocked by what he was hearing. "My God, El, I didn't know."

"Look, nothing happened. It's okay," she said soothingly.

"But is it? I mean, what— What does that mean?"

"For us? Oh honey, it doesn't mean anything."

He studied her face, her blue eyes, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and kiss her, hold her, make it all go away. But instead he just stared, scared to do anything, to touch her.

Elizabeth must have noticed, because she gazed at him in a sadly loving way. She reached out and cupped his face with her hand, stroking his skin with her thumb. "Don't," she said. "Don't let this scare you. It doesn't change anything."

Peter wished nothing more. His hand came up, covering hers on his cheek. "What can I do?" he whispered.

"Just... be here," she simply said.

He scooted closer and enveloped her in his arms, holding her close. "I'll be here. For as long as you need me."

They fell asleep in that position not too long afterwards.

* * *

><p>It was a strange sensation for Neal to be coming back here, back to the White Collar office building. Everything felt familiar, yet strangely not so. It had been, how long since he'd last set foot in here? Eight weeks? Nine?<p>

Walking longer distances still tired him, and he breathed a little too heavily for his liking when he reached the elevator in the lobby. He drew in a breath that he held for a moment as he got in and pushed the button to the 21st floor.

Too soon, he elevator emitted a _bing_, signaling it had arrived at its destination. Exiting through the sliding doors, he put on a brave face, even though he was coming back with mixed feelings.

Outwardly, he liked to appear as if nothing could sway the suave, confident Neal Caffrey, but inwardly, it was a whole other matter. He'd have to lie if he said this whole incident hadn't shaken him, and he couldn't help but wonder what being back at work would be like. He'd been put on a restricted schedule for now, and he already knew Peter would (however subtly or not) make sure he took it easy.

He pushed open the glass doors to the office, trying to act as if nothing had changed, as if this was just any normal working day. He walked over to his desk, nodding at the agents who looked at him, sinking down in his chair to fire up his computer. Everything was as if he'd never left.

A surreptitious look up into Peter's office told him Peter had seen him coming in, and sure enough, Peter got up from his desk and walked out to stand at the top of the gallery, looking down into the bullpen.

"Neal, come over here a minute," he called, and as Neal, unable to suppress a small groan, stood up from his chair, so did all the other agents in the bullpen.

They formed a semi circle as Neal walked up, and started clapping—a tribute to Neal's selfless, heroic act, his painful recovery, the triumph of coming back.

Neal was completely taken by surprise. He looked into his colleagues' faces who were smiling encouragingly at him, some even in awe. This was... He was at a loss for words, and he felt his eyes filling with unexpected tears.

He looked up at Peter who was now coming down the stairs, his face positively radiating pride and admiration.

Neal smiled through the tears at the people around him, feeling very self-conscious. "Enough, enough," he stopped the last remnants to applause ringing through the office.

He lifted his arms in a grateful gesture. "Wow, thank you. I... I don't know what to say. This, uh... This means a lot. I guess, I... Well, let's just say I'm glad to be back."

There were murmurs of, "Hear, hear," all around.

Peter came up to him, giving him a good-natured but gentle clap on the shoulder. "Glad to have you back, Neal."

Neal grinned at him. "I'll remind you you said that the next time you wanna throw me out the nearest window."

"Yeah, can we maybe work towards not approaching that point in the first place?"

"Well, we can certainly _try_."

"There you go, your first assignment of the day."

A voice piped up from the group of agents, and Neal identified it as Agent Yu, one of the more outgoing personalities who always had a joking remark at the tip of his tongue. "So, where's the comeback cake, Caffrey?"

"Cake?" Neal feigned ignorance. "No one told me about comeback cake."

"Well, you own a bakery, do you not?"

Neal chuckled. "Yes, I guess I do. Okay, a round of 'the greatest cake' from me for everyone tomorrow. I promise."

There were cheers and whoops all around. Peter looked at his team, then ushered everyone back to their desks. "All right, enough idle standing around. Back to work, people. Let's solve some crimes."

Neal looked at Peter. "Well, I guess that includes me."

Peter gave his shoulder a gentle tug. "If you come with me, I think I may have just the thing for you. If you're up for it, that is."

Neal gave him an honest, affirmative smile. "Oh, absolutely."

And he was, suddenly realizing that he had actually missed this. He was glad to be back, and, all of a sudden, immensely thankful that Peter had given him this opportunity. Four more years in prison might not have gotten him shot, but he knew they would have been a lot harder than this.

No, life was about as good as it got right now. Or as good as it got when you were wearing a tracking device on your ankle that had a two-mile radius. Neal knew to count his blessings. And that, he did.

* * *

><p>THE END.<p> 


End file.
